


To Know and to Hide

by sredni_vashtar



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, General fiction, Literature, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:21:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sredni_vashtar/pseuds/sredni_vashtar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're broke, you're wearing an uncomfortable suit, and you just failed a job interview with a mysterious government agency. And now it looks like you and your unreliable, non-SHIELD approved powers might be a stranded god's last hope...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Simulposting this from my DeviantArt account.
> 
> This will have more chapters, obviously, I just haven't gotten around to typing things up.

You were 17 cards into your job interview, and if you were reading the black-suited, definitely-not-a-government agent’s face right, it was kind of turning into a disaster.

It wasn’t your fault. You were at least 55% sure of that. They were the ones who’d started coming around with badges you didn’t recognize and a CIA-level vocabulary two months ago; they were the ones who’d stashed what looked like a police interrogation room from the 1980s in an office that was labeled “Sylvan Learning Center.” You were just an unsuspecting interviewee who really, really needed a paycheck and was really, really beginning to regret wearing pantyhose to this place.

That had been the first thing you’d figured out. They weren’t looking for a person who could make coffee and wear a suit. They were looking, you suspected, for somebody that wasn’t you.

Very-Definitely-Not-A-Government-Agent took another card off the top of the deck on the table. “3 of Clubs,” you told him.

He turned it face up. 7 of Clubs. Crap, crap, _crap_. That was always the way things worked with your powers. You’d get a few things-- colors, shapes, maybe some words-- and then the rest would be a blur. Or just wrong, if you were starting to think too hard.

Very Definitely was tapping the back of the next card with a crookedly cut fingernail. “Miss (Name)?”

“6 of Hearts.”

Another card. 8 of Hearts. You blamed the pantyhose.

Very Definitely sighed. “Thank you, Miss (Name). We probably won’t need to call-”

“Try another card.” You took a deep breath. _This isn’t goddamn Pictionary, (Name). You don't have to guess. You can do this._

Very Definitely shrugged, then laid another card face down on the table. “Whenever you’re ready, Miss (Name).”

You squinted at the back of the card, then closed your eyes. All you were getting was a squareish thing with something blobby at the corners. You’d probably be closer to guessing it if you weren’t psychic.

“Uh… something with diamonds?” you finally squeaked.

Very Definitely just smiled sadly at you from across the table. You turned over the card. King of Clubs. “We’ll get back in touch with you if we need to, Miss (Name).”

“But if I see anything else-”

“We’ll be in touch.” He’d already opened up the door for you. For an unremarkable looking guy in a suit, he moved pretty quickly.

Right. Nothing left to do but the graceful exit. “Bye,” you said as you headed for the exit. Then you bumped into his arm, and before you could think _There goes my graceful exit_ , the pictures dropped in front of you: a street full of broken concrete. A man wearing green. An address written in blue: something something Thompson Park, it looked like.

It couldn’t hurt to check around Thompson Park, right? At worst, you’d find out that you were reading too much into your readings again, that the address wasn’t an address and that the man in green would turn out to be a picture of Very Definitely’s aunt or something, and you’d get some fresh air.

The door closed behind you, and you started walking in what you hoped was the right direction.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who left kudos: Thanks. It's nice to know that people read things that I post. :)

The discreetly marked SUVs were already there when you got to Thompson Park. Really, it was kind of hard not to notice that you were in the right place when half the driveways were walled in by shiny black blocks of steel with government plates. All the antennas and black suits and people swabbing the pavement with Q-Tips were just icing on the cake.

 

You looked down at your interview clothes. A too-long black skirt, a too-small suit jacket, the eldritch pantyhose monster from Hell… yeah, not perfect, but you’d still blend in pretty well. Or you’d get arrested in style.

 

Slowly, quietly, you made your way toward the house that had the biggest clump of suits growing around it and eased open the gate to the back yard. Unfortunately, the back yard was being occupied by six very tall, very armed men in body armor, having a murmured discussion about snipers and acceptable losses and different flavors of grenade.

 

Okay, maybe you weren’t going to get arrested. Maybe just shot.

 

You turned to sneak away. Your hand brushed against the side of the house, and before you could say “Another vision? Really?” you saw the man in green again. He wasn’t surrounded by rubble this time, just a tangle of old pipes that looked black in the darkened room, and he had a piece of cobweb caught in his hair, and dammit, your brain really was trying to drag you to your doom, wasn’t it?

 

_Fine. We’re investigating. And breaking. And entering._

 

You picked up a large rocklike object from the grass near your feet and threw it over the fence. It landed on the pavement outside with a resounding smack. None of the armed men appeared to notice. Maybe you needed something a little flashier. A quick glance over the fence told you that there was a power line just within range, with a pair of sneakers hanging thrown over the wires and approximately half the world’s supply of pigeons chattering to each other. You threw another rock, this time trying to get the pigeons to distract the agents for you. Nope. Now the agents and the pigeons were ignoring your distractions. One of the oblivious men in the yard stepped back to light a cigarette, and you shrank back closer to the wall, praying that he wouldn’t see you.

 

And now the rocks were out of your reach, and the voices outside the gate were coming closer. Great. Frustrated, you took off a shoe and threw it at the hanging sneakers. The initial soft thump didn’t draw anyone’s attention. Then the sneakers came crashing down, there was a noise somewhere between a yelp and a scream from the direction of one of the antenna vans, and everyone but you was suddenly rushing to offer CPR or look for bandages or hunt down whatever deadly shoe-themed supervillain is attacking the forensic techs.

 

You ran to the nearest door and darted inside, trying not to think about assault charges and fatal sneaker injuries and the fact that they probably served Tang instead of real orange juice in prison and-

 

Focus. You took a deep breath, which was startlingly loud in the empty house. Where were you going to find a bunch of darkness, cobwebs, evil-looking tangles of pipe big enough to hide a person?

 

The first door you try turns out to be a closet, but the second one opens onto a set of stairs headed down. The basement. Of course!

 

You’re halfway down the stairs when you hear the last of your luck running out. There’s a slam, the almost musical rhythm of feet thundering across the floor, overlapping shouts of “Clear!” and “Go!”

 

They’re fast, too. You’ve barely had a chance to make it down the stairs and start looking for a hiding place when a tinny radio voice in the stairwell says “Copy. We’re clearing the basement. Over.”

 

“Remind me why I listen to you again,” you mutter to yourself. You turn back toward the door, raise your hands, and start trying to think of a world-class lie. Before the door opens, and before you have the chance to open your mouth again, something grabs you by the arm and drags you back into the shadows.


	3. Chapter 3

A hand closes over your mouth. It’s surprisingly cool, and the body it’s attached to proves to be surprisingly strong when you try to elbow it in the solar plexus and run away.

 

“Quiet,” he hisses, his lips brushing against your ear.

 

The door slams open, and suddenly the room’s full of people. Armed people. Armed people that looked like they really wanted to test out their tasers and guns and unidentified stabby objects on someone, and oh, God, why wouldn’t whoever was behind you let you go so you could run for the stairs while they were looking for dustbunnies to shoot?

 

You glance down at the hand over your mouth, then twist a little to take a look at your own body. No hand, no arm, no sign of your shoeless foot; all you can see is shadow. It’s probably not safe to how the hell you’re both invisible with an armed spy crouched next to your leg, so you settle for a quiet “Oh.”

 

The agent next to your leg straightens up. “Clear,” he barks, oblivious to the fact that he’s inches away from your ear. You jump, almost elbowing the guy behind you in the stomach.

 

“We lost him?” The lead agent’s eyes jump to the spot where you’re standing. The stranger’s invisible hand tightens on your shoulder.

 

“There’s nothing more down here. He’s gone.”

 

Lead Agent lifts his head, looks straight into your face- or at least the shadow where your face is supposed to be- and smiles. It’s hell on your nerves. “Looks like we’re done here. Get the director on the phone.”

 

Their footsteps fade back up the stairs. You don’t realize how much you’re leaning on the man behind you until he abruptly lets you drop to the floor. So much for chivalry.

 

“So,” you say awkwardly, turning to look at him for the first time. There were a few things you recognized from your visions- tall, graceful, and there was the dusty green shirt and unbrushed hair from your last one- but he was still standing in the shadows, and his long black hair was hanging in front of his face. You pulled yourself off the floor and took two quick steps toward him. Probably a bad idea, because if he turned out to be the guy you’d just have gotten very, very close to someone who blows up cities, and if you were wrong you’d get within axe-murdering distance of a stranger who liked to lurk in people’s basements. But hey, at least you’d finally be sure that you weren’t crazy.

 

“What are you doing?” His voice was low, accented, and laced with a hint of warning.

 

“This.” Before he can react, you reach out and brush the hair out of his face. He’s startled, and there’s more than a little suspicion in his blue-green eyes, but now you’ve seen enough to recognize him.

 

“Oh, good,” you say. “It’s you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally longer, but it got all complex and mutated and I had to split two-thirds of it off into its own chapter.
> 
> And yes, that's Loki in his prisoner look. I'm not entirely certain where this is on the timeline (for one thing, I haven't seen AoU and I'm not a fan of Agents of SHIELD, so I'm hesitant to rush too far forward), but I figure there's a very real possibility that he ends up in the exact same place after Thor 2. [I'm picturing the Asgardian version of this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZa79QGDeo8)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA "Hooray, hooray, it is a glorious day, we're finally out of the frickin' basement."
> 
> AKA "I got a migraine the first couple weeks I tried to update this, and a leg injury the last time I tried to finish this chapter up, so I am SO glad I got to finish it before fate threw me off an airplane or something."
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, late as it is.

For what seems like one of the longest moments in human history, he just stares at you. His eyes narrow slightly as he looks at your face, and his mouth starts to open a couple of times like he’s about to say something, but mostly he’s just staring.

 

“What are you?” he finally asks. Not who, what. That’s a little rude, coming from a guy who likes to lurk behind water heaters and put their cold hands all over innocent psychics.

 

“Human. I should know. I’ve had tests.” Since there isn’t anywhere to sit down, you lean against the dusty wall. “What are you doing in here?”

 

“I should ask the same question,” he says, his face finally relaxing into a vaguely mischievous smile. “Unless there’s some mortal ritual I’m unaware of that involves scurrying around in the dark like a trapped mouse.”

 

“I’m here because you’re here. So, is there-”

 

“There was more than one portal opened by the same spell?”

 

“Um. No?”

 

His smile slips away.

 

“I walked here,” you continue, trying to explain. “I have blisters.” Great. Now he’s staring again. “Also, one of my shoes is in a tree.”

 

“...Is that some kind of metaphor?”

 

Not unless you could give a SHIELD tech a concussion with a metaphor. “Whatever. You were supposed to be here, so I figured if I could get in before SHIELD-”

 

His face hardened, and he took a step forward. Crap.  _Why did you have to mention SHIELD, [y/n]?_

 

“Supposed to be here.” He took another step forward, and you gave the wall behind you an experimental kick with your bare heel, hoping that there was an air vent or a trapdoor or a ridiculously well-hidden panic room. Nope. “And by whose will was I supposed to be here?”

 

You tried to take a step away, but he had you by the shoulders before you could put your foot down. “I was hoping you’d tell me?” you said, trying not to squeak.

 

“You’re the only one standing on this side of the portal-”

 

“Only because the guys with guns are out getting coffee or calling a SWAT team or something!”

“-and you’re the only one insisting that I was meant to arrive here.”

 

You try to shrug, but he’s holding you too tightly. “Look, I can’t summon tall guys out of nowhere. Trust me. I’d be a lot more popular if that was my thing.”

 

He looks down at you skeptically. “And what is your ‘thing’?”

 

“I see things. Sometimes I hear things.” You close your eyes. He’s not dropping you or pushing you away, which is a good sign, but you’ve had to explain this before, and you know better than to look at whatever’s happening on his face. “Like a crazy person, except mine happen. Usually pretty quickly.”

 

His grip on your shoulders loosens until it’s almost gentle, and you brace yourself. “Then tell me,  _völva_.” His right hand travels down to your left hand, traces something into your palm with a fingertip so cold it almost burns, and a vision of a tall blond man in a red cape drops into your brain with all the painful force of a falling brick. “Where is he?”

 

“It’s shiny. And he’s talking to a woman with a sword. Well, she’s talking to him, he’s just kind of staring off into space and smiling.” You shake yourself free of him. “Also, that tastes like artificial strawberry. Don’t do that again.”

 

“Good. He is still in Asgard, and he does not suspect. Have the agents outside departed?”

 

“I don’t know.” You walk toward the door absentmindedly, still trying to get the taste of fake strawberry- seriously, what was that supposed to be? A Pop-Tart?- out of your mouth. It’s only when you have your hand on the doorknob that you realize that he was talking to you like you knew something. Not like a crazy person, not like a bored teenager calling in a fake tip. Hell, even the totally-not-SHIELD types who were willing to test out your powers were rolling their eyes haf the time. This guy actually believed you.

 

Of course, the doorknob wasn’t any help. Not now, not when you were trying to have a vision. “I think they’re still out there,” you tell him uncertainly. “But I can’t…”

 

“It doesn’t matter.” He holds out his hand. “It’ll be much easier to make you invisible if you stay close.”

 

As you follow him up the stairs, you finally remember to ask, “Wait, why did you call me a Volvo?”

  
“It will also be much easier if they can’t follow your voice,” he calls over his shoulder.


End file.
